


Lazarus Dreams.

by Rahn (Rahndom)



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahndom/pseuds/Rahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writen for the 2013 Angst War - Tim thought he had come out of his encounter with Ra's Al Ghul one spleen less and a lot of scars more. </p><p>In reality Ra's killed him and brought him back. </p><p>He was give a second chance at life and was broken in the process. </p><p>He dreams now of green hued memories of times past and pain he had thought he had left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazarus Dreams.

It begins the first few months after Bruce returns.

While Dick and Damian still patrol the city as Batman and Robin and he remains at the cave pretending he still lives in the Manor as to not upset his… Bruce.

_He remembers his room back at his parent’s penthouse, the sterile white walls and the cool colored bedspread, the way he had to pile the Encyclopedia Britannica to reach the top of the mattress on his own._

_His mother’s cold, blank blue eyes staring at his lips, his forehead, never his eyes as she whispered: “I love you, I love you so much, my darling son. My baby boy.”_

_He remembers how he sat down, small, so very small and pale, gazing at the grey sky outside of his window, asking himself whether this was the reason he would not go out of the house._

_“I fear someone might steal you up, baby boy,” his mother whispered once more, her hands on his diminutive shoulders. Her nails biting into his skin. “You are just so beautiful, Timothy.”_

_Then, he wanted to ask, why won’t you look at me?_

_“I would give anything to keep you safe,” Janet whispers again, her chin resting on top of Tim’s soft black hair, her knuckles caressing his cheek._

_Then take me with you, he wants to beg. Let me see the world like you and daddy do._

_Post-Partum depression. His daddy whispers into the phone. She won’t let Timothy out of the house._

_Tim listens from his room and says nothing._

_He has not said a word since his parents returned from India bearing gifts and his mother’s eyes filled with the cold light that he has come to associate with her._

_He hates it when she calls him her baby boy._

_It’s the same, to him, as if she is calling him a Monster._

Bruce rests a hesitant hand on his shoulder that makes Tim jump, his own hand rising to slap the offending limb away.

He is not a doll, he won’t be a doll again, he is free, he wants to be free to…

His horrified eyes stare at Bruce’s surprised ones, regret instantly filling him to the brim.

“… sorry,” he whispers, his voice hoarse for reasons he cannot – will not – examine. “You startled me.”

Bruce’s lips tighten into a thin line full of hurt and disappointment Tim is not sure anyone else in the household – save for Alfred – can detect.

He feels so guilty.

“I… didn’t use to startle you,” the older man says simply, his brows furrowing with concern that only serves to settle something heavy inside Tim’s gut.

“I… “ Tim lowers his face. “I lost the habit of listening in for completely silent footsteps, no one else in the house tries to keep as quiet as you do.”

He feels even guiltier when Bruce flinches back, guilt and sorrow for all things lost marking his face.

Aging it.

Something inside of Tim coils like a snake around his throat, urging him to utter an apology, yet constricting all words inside his mouth.

Mentor and student remain silent.

No one knowing exactly what to do.

Mentor and student, because Tim now knows that is all they can ever be.

Bruce has a son now, a young boy who needs his love in ways Tim is too damaged to accept himself.

_Jack – father, Dad -, is the complete opposite of his mother – mom, mommy, her – because he is always looking into his eyes as if he Is looking at a dangerous animal, a frightened beast ready to flee, so he avoids sudden movements around him, avoids callous words of love or misinterpretations in his presence._

_He encourages that Tim spends most of his time outdoors, though._

_Because he is so shamed that Janet locked their baby boy inside the house all day._

_Because he never realized that the days they left for their usual trips the door behind them was always locked._

_Child endangerment, the police had told him, years later._

_He could have gone to jail had he known._

_So now Tim needs to build some muscles of his own, needs to tan away the sickly pallor of his skin with play and fresh air and laughter._

_But Tim was never built to be the sport-sy type, was never taught how to survive the winter cold and the summer heat without the protection of his mother’s house and his books of detectives and adventures._

_He gets sunburns so deep that the struggles for days in bed, deliriously feverish, his whole skin punishing him for his daring._

_His dad stares at him with eyes full of disappointment before he leaves him to Dana’s tender hands._

_He is enrolled into boarding school as soon as he is able to walk again._

_“It’s for your own good, Tim,” his dad says with eyes glassed, cold, mother’s eyes. “You can’t stay inside forever, Janet,… you just can’t keep hiding away from the world.”_

_Tim wants to say he has never hidden from the world._

_He is just observing it and learning from it before he acts. He is a smart boy, he wants to scream, he has uncovered secrets not even the smartest minds of his generation have been able to unearth._

_He is Robin._

_He knows things._

_Batman needs him._

_He can make a difference._

_But his dad’s face is so full of heartbreak as he holds his pale, slender hand, that he remains quiet, accepting._

_His father doesn’t know how to be a father, just like his mother didn’t know how to be a mother._

_It’s not their fault._

_Bart asks him if he ever cried then, when his father drove him away from home – it’s not Bart’s fault, they are both high on some weird alien pollen and the words just slip out – if he has ever cried without the bat-mask on._

_Tim isn’t sure if he has._

_“Why would I?” he asks back, tilting his head. “He was doing his best, he loved me.”_

_The words ring hollow even to his impaired perception._

“Pay attention, Drake! _”_ Damian scoffs, landing a powerful kick against his chest.

He staggers back, coughing, his hands trembling in an effort to hold himself together.

Is he sick?

He doesn’t think so.

But it’s been a long time since he has felt anything at all other than the sort of numb endlessness that has filled his insides since Bruce returned.

The thought occurs to him that if he were to be sick he would need to be quarantined immediately, because doesn’t have a spleen.

Anything he catches will kill him.

Will infect the others.

He shakes his head.

“You are such a disgrace,” the child continues to taunt, his superior smirk grating as he stares down at the older teen. “I can’t believe Father has yet to get rid of you.”

“Shut up,” he whispers before he can catch himself. “Shut up or I’ll shut you up.”

“As if you could,” Damian sneers. “You are just talk, Drake, sullying my father’s legacy as if it meant-“

Damian cannot finish whatever derogatory remark he might have thought of, because within seconds he is pinned on the ground, Tim’s hand tight on his collarbone, thumb pressing against his windpipe with cruel accuracy.

Tim can feel the fluttering pulse that is Damian’s life against his skin, feels the rush of adrenaline roaring in his ears at the thought that just a little more of pressure would be literally enough and the insults, the scoffing words, the anger would dissipate.

Bruce never asked for this rape baby that now lords over their lives with its unwanted presence.

He could free Bruce of the burden.

He has never understood tunnel vision up until that moment.

Just a little push, nothing more than a push.

“TIM!” Dick’s distressed voice seems to snap it all and make it better and so much worse at the same time.

Tim turns, his eyes wide as he stares at his one time hero.

His former big brother.

His eyes are dark, wide, full of fright.

Like the night his parents stopped soaring the sky.

Like his mom looked at him.

He stands on unsteady legs, unable to face him, unable to focus on his face anymore, on Damian’s screaming or his violent movements.

He can only stare at his reflection on one of computer screens.

How his hair is sweaty, matted, plastered wetly against his skull.

How his lower lip is bitten, swollen, broken by what appears to be his own teeth.

How his eyes, usually a pale blue color, are now a deep teal.

A ring of noxious green corralling their usual color.

He runs.

_He goes to see Dana a few days after he agreed to be adopted into the Wayne family._

_He guesses he owes it to her to say his last goodbye, since he is, at the very least, the last link she will ever have to his father in the world._

_She is sitting calmly on her bed, the stench of sterile hospital surrounding her like a cloak as she calmly knits something or other in a pale green wool that seems to tangle and untangle in her nimble fingers with an ease born out of practice._

_The nurse tells him she does that a lot._

_That it keeps her calm._

_He wonders if she can teach him how to knit too._

_It looks soothing._

_“Mrs. Drake,” the nurse whose name he has already forgotten whispers cheerfully, placing a hand on the absent woman’s shoulder. “Your son is here to see you.”_

_Dana turns to her, eyes wide, confused._

_“What? That can’t be, silly,” she laughs, a breathy, soft laugh that Tim can hardly associate with his bubbly, sweet step-mom. “My son is still inside my belly, he can’t come see me yet.”_

_Tim feels his eyes widen and he really wants to ask the nurse what his step-mom means by that, but by then Dana has turned to stare at him, her lovely, heart-shaped face twisting into a thing of horror as she scrambles to get out of bed and curl into a corner of her room, her arms protectively holding her abdomen._

_“MONSTER!” she cries, loudly, hysterical. “GET AWAY FROM HERE! MONSTER!”_

_“Dana…” he whispers, not sure he is actually living this or if he somehow fell prey to one of Dr. Crane’s concoctions again._

_“YOU TOOK HIM AWAY FROM ME! YOU TOOK THEM BOTH FROM ME!” Dana continues to wail, completely ignoring the nurse’s attempts to calm her down. “GIVE HIM BACK! GIVE JACK BACK TO ME! GIVE BILLY BACK TO ME!”_

_Tim stays there, standing, silent, unable to believe it and somehow knowing the truth that he has been hiding from himself all this time._

_His father told Dana about him._

_His dad trusted his secret to his wife._

_She knows he died because of him._

_She knows he practically killed him._

_“Mrs. Drake, please!” the nurse tries, her own voice breaking._

_“You don’t understand!” Dana sobs. “If that monster hadn’t been born! If he hadn’t been born Jack would still be alive! We would be together and would have an actual happy family. Jack would have never allowed it if…”_

_A couple of other nurses enter the room before the woman is able to finish her tirade, instantly holding her arms away from her skinny body, injecting something clear and familiar in her arm as they tried to hold her down._

_Dana’s ravings grow quiet as she falls asleep, her hands loosening their hold on her knitting and finally revealing the shape to Tim’s eyes._

_He feels numb._

_She is knitting booties._

_Pale green baby booties._

_“Mr. Drake,” the first nurse says as she approaches him, her eyes wide and apologetic, her cheeks flushed with exhaustion. “I’m not sure what happened to her, she has never…”_

_“Is she pregnant?” he asks, not caring about his rudeness. He needs to know._

_The nurse stares at him sadly, eyes lowering to the ground._

_“She was…” she admits. “Five months pregnant but… the shock of losing her husband…”_

_Tim swallows._

_He doesn’t need to hear another word._

_He leaves and never returns to her cheerful sunny room with the green woolen booties._

_A few months later he reads she killed herself, but by then he feels nothing else because Kon is dead too, and so is Bart… and so is Bruce._

_It almost seems like the natural order of things._

He is sitting on the floor of his base with his knees pulled up to his chest, his head resting between them and his hands tightly covering his ears, the screen of his main computer lays in pieces on the floor after it revealed for the fifth time the results of the tests and the scans he had been performing all night.

He has his spleen.

The screen said.

He has his spleen, and his wisdom teeth, and his appendix.

His fingers tighten so his nails dig painfully against his scalp.

Where the burn scars used to be.

They are gone too.

Everything is gone.

He can understand now.

Ra’s lied.

‘ _Why is my baby boy crying?’_ his mother’s voice whispers against his ears, the cold, almost phantasmagorical feeling of her hands on his hair sends a sudden chill down his spine.

“I died, mom,” he whispers back, his voice hoarse.

Had he been screaming? He is not sure.

“I died and that bastard brought me back,” he continues. “He brought me back and broke me at the same time. Now I’m really a monster like Dana said.”

 _‘You will never be a monster,’_ his mother laughs.

“Yet you would never look at me in the face.”

’ _I am not afraid of you, my darling.’_

“But you can’t love me either.”

_‘I’ve always loved you, you are the most important piece of my life.’_

“Please stop lying.”

Another cool, translucent hand makes it place on his shaking shoulder, this one is bigger, more visibly calloused.

Tim looks up into his father’s pale, defeated face.

 _‘I am so proud of you, I always have been.’_ He says

“You sent me away as soon as mother was gone.” Tim replies, feeling sick. “You couldn’t look at me in the face either.”

His father’s smile is small, shy, the same smile he sees sometimes in the family photos that litter Wayne Manor.

He never realized he has his dad’s smile.

‘ _You were always so special, I knew I would never be able to keep up with that prodigious brain of yours.’_

Tim’s face leaves his bony knees, his eyes frantically move from his father’s apparition to his mothers, trying to commit their images to his memory.

Idly, he also wonders if this is what Jason sees himself when he is alone, if the ghosts of those that left him behind are also haunting his Lazarus induced nightmares with the failures of his youth.

No wonder the older Robin does his best to escape the silence that seems so envelop him wherever he goes.

He feels so sorry for him.

“It must have been hard for you two,” he whispers then, feeling a trickle of blood sliding down his chin – when did he bite his lip? He is not sure. “Neither of you could love like a parent, none of you wanted to be a parent and yet… you tried your best.”

His father and mother look at him, their eyes cold, their lips smiling their lies.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I’m so sorry I came to ruin it all.”

There is something his father wants to say, another declaration of pride, most likely, and Tim has heard them all in the last hour, the last words his father ever told him resonate in his head over and over until they have become a fallacious mantra, but there is a soft clicking of steel against concrete and both apparitions disappear into thin, stale, night air.

Tim is on his feet in a second, his bo at the ready swinging over the air with murdering intention, his eyes wide, maddened, a snarl pulling at his lips to destroy whatever it was that took the solace of his ghosts from him.

The sound of the metal crashing against skin echoes into the room.

Eyes now mad teal eyes meet midnight blue.

A massive hand – warm, this hand is warm – envelops his own.

A sliver of blood trickles down Bruce’s cheek from the cut he has just made.

Tim’s cut lips open and close.

No word forming in them.

Go away, he wants to say, save yourself. I am Lazarus too, like Jason, like Ra’s, I am mad. I lost my mind in exchange for my life. I am a monster, I will hurt you. I will kill you. Don’t let me kill you, please.

Bruce’s thumb caresses the back of his hand slowly, his own eyes are hooded, full of something Tim Is not sure he can decipher.

The man’s adam’s apple bobs up and down as he takes a deep breath and swallows, steeling himself.

Tim can feel himself tense, knowing it is time he is sent to Arkham like Jason once was.

It’s time the unwanted child number two is swept under the rug while the Bat continues with his mission.

“Dick told me what happened,” Bruce says finally, his voice booming in the darkness that envelops them. “Then Barbara hacked your mainframe, told me what you were testing for.”

Tim swallows on his own, knowing the inevitable has arrived.

Can he beg his mentor to kill him instead?

He thinks it will hurt less.

“I will never be whole again…” he says, preparing for the argument that will surely ensue.

“I know…” Bruce nods and there is no Batman in his voice, in the angles of his face. This is all Bruce and father and dearest pillar. “When I think about it, about what happened, about what you are now… I feel afraid.”

Tim’s eyes widen.

“I feel afraid of what will happen to you, what you will be capable of doing…” the man continues, eyes nailing Tim’s to the spot, freezing his whole body into inaction. “But I fear the most that I almost lost you. That my own weakness made you lose your life. That I failed to be there when you needed me the most.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was my promise that got broken,”  Bruce interrupts, his fingers – scorching warm fingers – tightening against his own. “I fear you will turn like Jason, that there is nothing I can do to help you, to heal you back into the young man I was so proud to call my son.”

Tim’s eyes finally are able to release themselves from the hold of Bruce’s gaze and are instantly falling to the dirt stained floor, unable to bear the weight of his own mind.

“But what I fear the most, Tim, is that I don’t care,” Bruce’s voice breaks in ways Tim has never heard it, and his head snaps back up in shock. “I want to get home after patrol and see you showering the sweat off in the cave. I want to hear your voice over the com and know you are on your way whenever I need you. I want to get up every morning and see you curled in your chair, sipping your coffee while you struggle with the crossword, knowing you breezed through the morning’s Sudoku.”

“Bruce…”

“I want to hold you when you have a nightmare, and protect you when the voices become too much,” the man says, as if unable to stop himself. “I want to remind you every single day of how happy I am that you are part of my life, and that even if you are never stable again, I will be thankful because you are alive anyways, and it’s selfish and terrible of me to think that way, but I can’t help myself, and that frightens me.”

Tim feels something cold and soothing inside of himself break and coil like mercury.

His hands start to tremble anew, his lips part to gasp for air he has not realized he so terribly needs.

A tear slides down his cheek.

Then a second one.

Then a third.

His knees cannot hold his weight anymore as he falls into Bruce’s arms, his cracked fingernails digging into the man’s cape as he anchors himself to this man, this wonderful man that somehow knows exactly the right words to say and yet doesn’t seem to realize the power he has over them.

“Bruce…” he sobs, broken, loudly, choking on air itself to deliver such sacred word, such mantra of stability.

Bruce holds him in his arms, his powerful hands caressing his hair, his heaving back, his shivering arms, trying to hold everything that is Tim and keep it together by sheer will alone.

They remain like so until the sun rises in the horizon. 


End file.
